


pale white things

by miriya



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M, dub-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-25
Updated: 2012-02-25
Packaged: 2017-10-31 17:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/346673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miriya/pseuds/miriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cleaned-up k-meme fill, based on a this prompt: <i>Fenris and Anders are escorting slaves/mages/etc to freedom when Templars/robbers/etc confront them. There is no way to fight without the innocent people getting hurt or killed. For whatever reason, the bad guys agree to let everyone go safely if Anders will service them, to which he agrees. During this, Fenris watches, to make sure they don't go beyond what was agreed. Anders thinks Fenris is watching because he enjoys seeing him humiliated. Fenris tries to prove to him the opposite.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily influenced by Shearwater's new album, _Animal Joy_ , because every time this band puts out something new I flip tables and go on writing sprees. Warnings for (non-fetishized) depictions of sexual acts of dubious consent in this chapter. This is my first time working in the DA fandom, and despite all those open wikia tabs, I'm fully willing to admit I might have buggered a thing or two up.

**act i. snow on your open palms.**  
(each stray reminder of your home life)

No one had seen or heard them coming.

Not that there had been much chance of it. After all, there had been plenty enough to keep them occupied and otherwise distracted: the clatter of their overloaded ox-drawn wagon as it creaked and groaned and fought against the deep ruts of the muddy highway, the nervous murmur of the dozen Fereldan repatriates that lined its splinter-laden bed, the discord of a handful of travel-dirty children occasionally dropping from the sides to lope lazy, restless circles around the meager procession when their pent-up energy overwhelmed the concern of their tired, malnourished mothers.

Until then, it had been an almost pleasant day -- despite the company, Fenris found himself enjoying this strange land of vast green forests and snow-capped mountains, sun-dappled hills and bitterly cold glacial streams, all of it so very different from the lands he had known. The Fereldan people might be looked down upon by the rest of the world for being dog-lords of a grubby, half-wild land, but Fenris observed much to appreciate, both in scenery and its earthy, practical people.

Their wagon bore four families, each with an apostate to its name, two with magically-inclined children. They’d come to Anders in Darktown, beseeching him as they would some sort of magister -- of course, the mage had taken it up with Hawke. _They are Fereldan_ , he’d said. _They are frightened_ , he’d said. _They cannot afford to return home_ , he’d said, _and The Gallows looms greater, darker and further-reaching, with each passing day._

 _Help me_ , he’d said, _and I will guide them home_.

Fenris had not approved, but had finally voiced his reluctant agreement, imagining a blessed few months free of the abomination, nursing an immediate flare of cautious hope that perhaps the unreliable, dangerous man would not bother to return at all. Had he known Hawke would insist on his inclusion on the journey, he’d have kept his mouth shut tighter than any _saarebas_.

.

 

His gauntlets creak against the worn leather of the traces as he shifts on the bench, and he averts his gaze from the trio of templars with a stinging sense of irritation -- for all Ferelden might have in its favor, elves are still looked upon by humans as something _less_. And though he’d prefer the company of a handful of templars over the dubious company of apostates any day, he is keenly aware that he is a stranger, both to landscape and custom -- and that many templars possess an … affinity, for lyrium.

Perhaps Anders will use that occasionally silver tongue of his to talk them out of this without trouble. Certainly, none of the people in their wagon wear robes or carry staves, and Anders’ own weapon is tucked beneath the bench, well out of sight. Without these features, there is nothing immediately visible to give any of them away for the dangerous people that they are.

He glances at Anders out of the corner of his eye, quietly surprised to see the man’s usually insolent expression turned empty. Slender fingers move to smooth the fabric of his ragged, stained coat over a knee, and Fenris does not miss the flex there, a strange gesture -- he’s never seen the mage nervous enough to show it before.

“Sers,” Anders says, dipping his head in a moment of rare deference, if not respect. Fenris almost smirks. _Where is your defiance now, mage?_

Perhaps this will be easy. A few questions, and then a few more miles of this miserable road before camp, barring another mess of bandits. At this point, he’s fairly certain he’d welcome a mess of bandits -- or two.

The closest of the templars reaches up to slip his helmet over his head, revealing sweat-damp auburn hair, thinning at the crown. Again, that subtle spasm of fingertips, this time accompanied by a noise so soft the elf is momentarily certain he’s imagined it.

“Ser Isley,” Anders says, and there’s something in the ripple of his voice that tells Fenris _no_ , this will not be easy at all.

The templar’s smile is tight and vaguely unfriendly -- not, it seems, a pleasant reunion. No surprise, given the mage’s penchant for dissent and trouble-making, especially when the Chantry’s servants are involved. “I thought, perhaps, you’d forgotten me. You’ve been away from home so long, after all.”

Anders tilts his head to the side. “You’re far from Kinloch yourself, ser.” He seems to Fenris to have recovered some; that startling quiver is gone, replaced by studied neutrality. It’s just what they need, he thinks, cursing the mage for his insistence upon this journey for the seventh time today. Even then, there’s something disquieting, the faintest shadow lingering over the entire exchange that sends a shiver down Fenris’ spine, despite the pleasant weather.

“One must always be diligent in serving the needs of the Maker and his chosen,” Isley drawls, and the mage’s fingers twist savagely into the hem of his coat, knuckles paling beneath fierce pressure as he sucks a sharp breath through his nose. “No matter where such needs may take you.”

There is no reply for a moment -- it seems Anders is full of surprises today, each one of them unwelcome. A few beats of uncomfortable silence pass, tension building like pressure in a corked bottle, before Anders gives a small sigh, a sound like surrender. “I have answered a different calling, ser,” he says at last. “You and Greagoir are both well aware of that.”

The templar’s gaze settles on Fenris, then slides past his shoulder to the huddle of ragged people within the cart. “And where are you headed, then, _warden_?” There’s a mocking lilt in the title that Anders, again, does not react to beyond the sense of tension building yet further, the unrelenting pressure of a coil drawn ever tighter. “You seem to be running the wrong way.”

Anders’ laugh is short, sharp and touched with bitterness. “Refugees, ser, recently returned from the famed hospitality of Kirkwall. I am delivering them to Redcliffe, to be reunited with their families.”

“And such a journey requires a Warden’s protection? They seemed to have done well enough for themselves in leaving.”

A few of the children, momentarily curious to see what might perhaps be their first remembered glimpse of Fereldan templars, return to the wagon bed as if sensing the unease of the exchange. Grimly, mothers and fathers gather them close, waiting with the resigned silence of the condemned. “Darkspawn still remain, especially this close to the remains of Lothering,” Anders says softly. “We encountered a ranging group of genlocks not two nights ago.”

He tilts his head in Fenris’ direction, and the elf silently curses the mage for drawing attention to him. “Fortunately, the elf’s worth the coin he was paid.”

“Really, now? I thought perhaps you’d found another … pleasant distraction.” Isley’s eyes meet Fenris’ for a brief moment, but his attention quickly shifts to the man-height length of Red Steel strapped to his back. There’s a flicker in his look that might be grudging approval. “Are you a man of faith, elf?” he asks, and Fenris returns a curt nod.

“Redcliffe has its own issues, mage,” Isley says after another look at the cart’s passengers. “It certainly doesn’t need the kind you’re likely to bring.”

“Their passage is assured by Lady Rowden,” Anders shrugs. “The blond with the twins is her niece.”

“Fascinating,” Isley murmurs. Fenris does not miss the way one of the other templars touches the pommel of his sword, and he has a moment to consider what he intends to do should this dissolve into violence. He owes the mage no allegiance outside of a hastily-wrought promise from Hawke -- truly, an abomination deserves little more. _And yet --_

“But who assures your passage, mage?” Isley asks softly.

“The Warden-Commander,” Anders says, a hint of a growl in his voice -- the first real sign of defiance he’s shown. Fenris can feel the tension radiating off the mage in waves, an overabundance of nervous energy that’s almost infectious. Fenris half-expects Anders to start glowing at any moment, destroying any chance of maintaining this stilted peace.

For a moment there’s silence, save for the rustle of wind through the trees. An infant whimpers, and is quickly hushed.

“Rolan was my friend.”

A beat, then, “I am sorry for your loss, ser.”

“You should have died instead, _mage_. The thought that you had was our only comfort.” There’s nothing pleasant on the templar’s face now, Fenris notes, and crosses his arms over his chest in a manner that indicates that he has nothing to do with this mess. Maker, but Hawke has the worst judgement when it comes to mages -- too much time with his sister has done much to blind him to the truth of their natures, no matter their intentions.

“Perhaps so,” Ander says, dropping his gaze to his hands, where they are still worrying at his coat. “But my life has already been claimed, and you know it.” He lifts his head, shoulders straightening, and Fenris bites back a groan of irritation -- the mage is about to do something stupid, undoubtedly. He’s going to open his mouth and say something or _do_ something, and there will be blood and Hawke will never hear from either of them again because Fenris _will not_ take part in this mess. “So what is it that you want, ser?”

The question hangs in the air between them like chokedamp. Another uneasy silence looms as the templar considers Anders, and Fenris catches the flicker of something unpleasant and knowing in the man’s muddy green eyes, something that speaks to him of dark places and -- strangely -- the gloating of a magister.

“We had an arrangement, once, did we not?” Isley asks after a thoughtful pause, and Anders nods mutely. His hands have gone still at the very least, a small blessing in what’s shaping up to be quite the unpleasant day.

Fenris glances at the mage, who very deliberately does not look back. “Nothing more?”

“It sounds like you’re encouraging, mage.”

Anders frowns. “I’ve come to dislike surprises, ser.”

The templar shrugs. “It seems everyone grows up -- though we certainly had our doubts about _you_. The old terms stand.”

Another dip of the head, and Anders lifts a hand to push a strand of hair back from his face. There’s the barest hint of a tremble in the gesture, and the mage takes a moment to glance behind him, at the nervous people under his protection. A breath of hesitation, and those honey-gold eyes flicker over in Fenris’ direction, a glance quickly lowered, as if containing some hidden shame. “Nothing more,” he repeats, almost to himself.

Fenris’ brows knit in a rare moment of concern -- the mage’s behavior is unlike anything he’s ever seen from the man. Stripped of his smart remarks and foolish rants, placed against the background of this strange land, he seems somehow … less, diminished in some unmeasurable way. Something in his demeanor galls Fenris, watching the apostate assume the mannerisms of a beaten slave, despite his cursed power. Such a creature has no right to play games of helplessness, mocking those who live wretched lives truly pinned beneath the heels of a magister--

“Very well,” Anders says, just loud enough for the templar to hear him, and closes his eyes with a shuddering sigh.

Isley arches a brow. “Has age dimmed your enthusiasm, mage? I trust you’ll not to disappoint me, lest I consider … other options.”

“Nothing more,” Anders repeats, that soft growl rising once more in his tone. “ _You_ set the terms, ser.”

The templar laughs, baring his teeth, and it is a humorless, grating sound that sets Fenris’ nerves on edge. He has no idea what sort of accord has just been struck, but he doubts he’ll like it. It’s what comes of keeping company with mages, he supposes -- unpleasant bargains all around, and pray to the Maker that someone remains standing in the aftermath to pick up the mess. “I suggest you recall yourself then, mage,” Isley says sharply. “But as you insist --”

His attention focuses on Fenris once more, and the elf bristles. _What now?_

“Certainly, a … neutral party, to make certain the terms are kept,” he says. “‘Tis quite a shame, for you to have wandered so far from the light. What righteous man would doubt the word of the Maker’s servants?”

Anders glances toward Fenris, eyes wild and dark with the stirring of what might be panic, before facing the templar once more. “There is no need for such measures, ser. Besides, he is hardly neutral -- it is my coin that weighs his purse, after all.”

“And yet he has proclaimed himself a man of the faith,” Isley points out, emphasizing his words with an uplifted, armored finger.

“I have no allegiance to you, _mage_ ,” Fenris snarls, annoyed at Anders for putting them in this position in the first place. He was the one who decided on such a ruse, claiming the elf as a mercenary of all things, and he could damned well live with it. “You hold a contract for my services against bandits and darkspawn. I see neither here.”

“See?” Isley says, and the look Anders directs at Fenris this time is seething with absolute fury.

Fenris looks back, placid in his confusion, and sighs through his nose. Anger from the mage is something much more familiar, and it surprises the elf how much that familiarity grounds him. “We’re wasting time, dawdling about like this.”

Disbelief wars with the rage in the man’s gaze, and Fenris is surprised to see something like betrayal rise up to overcome them both. “Very well, then, Fenris,” he grates out. “If you insist.”

Anders slides down from the wagon, stumbling a little as his boots make contact with the uneven road after hours of sitting on the stiff bench. He takes a moment to stretch his legs, then straightens to his full height, as if attempting to gather up some semblance of dignity, moving toward the trio of templars. Isley is turned aside, ordering the third templar to stand guard over the refugees in his absence. Fenris waits in silence, unsure of what’s expected of him, especially since the mage refuses to so much as look in his direction. Murmurs rise up behind him, confused people, made nervous by the pause in their journey and by the mage’s obvious displeasure.

“Well?” Isley calls to Fenris, amusement finally surfacing in the too-sharp features of his ruddy face. “Are you expecting some sort of invitation?”

Silently, the elf dismounts, knotting the tied traces carefully around the brake. “Be calm,” he assures a nervous-looking man who stares at him from the bed of the wagon. “We will return soon.” _If the mage can keep from doing anything foolish_ , he thinks, as he turns away.

Isley takes the front, leading them off the road and into the densely-wooded forest, and the remaining templar takes the rear, five paces behind Fenris, his hand never leaving the pommel of his sword as if waiting for an excuse to use it. Fenris’ eyes are riveted to the back of Anders’ head, studying his posture -- he sees him shake his head briefly, and knows he’s speaking to the demon within. What sort of destruction is the spirit counseling? What does the mage expect of Fenris, were he to give in?

Fenris growls a soft warning, and the mage tenses. _Do not cause further trouble._

Finally, Isley halts in a small clearing, and Anders stills behind him. Fenris and the other templar pause as well, the elf glancing at the unhelmed templar, looking for some sign of what was expected here. Isley turns to face the mage, studying Anders with a critical eye, the hint of an unpleasant smile lingering on his thin lips. “It has been a long time, mage,” the man drawls, stepping closer. “The Tower is so much quieter, without your special … brand of entertainment.”

“Save the reminiscing for later, _ser_ ,” Anders mutters. “The sooner we’re done here, the better.”

Isley chuckles. “Age has made you even more impatient, I see. Perhaps you … missed us, more than you admit. Did you miss us, mage?”

“I missed nothing about this blighted place.”

 _Do not turn this into a fight,_ Fenris thinks, as if his thoughts could somehow penetrate the other man’s thick skull.

The templar snorts quietly, then lifts a hand, armored fingers sinking into Anders’ hair to fist roughly at the top of his head. “On your knees, _mage_.”

Startled by the suddenness of the demand, Fenris watches as the tall man sinks to his knees on the damp forest floor, a quiet hiss escaping from behind gritted teeth as silverite snags, ripping free strands that the breeze catches like spider webs. For a moment, as the lack of comprehension wars with a sinking sense of unwelcome knowledge in Fenris’ mind, the elf’s eyes are captured by the way the sunlight catches those frayed strands, glinting red-gold.

“Explain, to our observer here, the terms of our agreement,” Isley says, tugging at Anders’ hair to force his head in Fenris’ direction. This time, Fenris thinks he understands that look, all that buried, thwarted defiance. “Difficult to know if either of us breaks it, otherwise, wouldn’t you say?”

 

The elf takes a moment to retrace the entire encounter in his mind, sucking in a quiet breath as the exchanges, the mage’s deference and misery insist upon a darker meaning. Fenris remembers muttered epithets, hatred he has most often trivialized and dismissed as the rantings of a dangerous mage who’d say anything to win sympathizers to his misguided, foolish cause.

Perhaps. _Perhaps_. And yet Anders has not hesitated to slay templars in the past for far less. Why would he stop now?

Confused, unwilling to ask under the templars’ watch, Fenris watches the man with a blank face.

Perhaps it is not what he thinks at all.

Anders swallows, his mouth opening as he takes a shaky breath.

“The _terms_ , mage,” Isley growls with another twist that pulls more of Anders’ hair from the confines of the tie that holds it back from his face; a lock slips free to slide over an eye, as if attempting to shield him from this disgrace. “Far too late for coyness, now.”

“Ser has the right to take his pleasure, however he sees fit,” Anders says at last, his voice flat and without inflection, that defiant glare pinning Fenris where he stands with all the weight of a greatsword. “What he demands, I shall provide, without complaint. There is to be no … penetration. No magic. No scarring.” A shudder sets the mage’s shoulders trembling, but he balls his hands into tight fists atop his thighs, forcing his body into submission. “And no word of this, to anyone.”

“Generous, I think. Don’t you, mage?”

For a time, Anders does not answer. The hand in his hair jerks viciously, and Anders grits his teeth, those golden eyes flickering away from Fenris to the path they’d walked to reach this place, toward the wagon they’d left on the road. Fenris watches that too-familiar, insolent rebellion fade like the last embers of a dying fire, leaving behind nothing but bleak acceptance to stir the ashes.

It’s a little like watching a man die, Fenris thinks, refusing to acknowledge the horror and revulsion threatening to well up inside of him like a sickness. He crosses his arms over his chest, glancing dispassionately to the side -- while there’s little to be done, at least he can … make certain the mage is not damaged any more than could be expected by such a bargain.

It makes him wonder how this bargain was struck in the first place. Given the history he’s unearthed from the interaction of these men … punishment, perhaps, for one or more of all those escapes.

Was this how Ferelden’s tower kept its fragile balance?

“Attend me, mage,” Isley murmurs, and Fenris steels himself for what is to come.

 

.

 

What follows is a blur, snatches of color and sound, too-bright sunlight spearing through the canopy of leaves to leave Fenris half-blind and strangely dazed: the whispered rasp of heavy fabric over metal and leather; the strange, argent glow of Isley’s gauntleted hands against the mage’s head as he bends over him; the soft, quickly-swallowed noises of pain as the base of a polished breastplate scrapes roughly over skin and scalp, tearing snarls of hair free with thoughtless brutality. Fenris’ eyes may be tilted in the direction of this unanswered crime, but his attention is a thousand leagues away, his mind circling, wheeling like a carrion bird over the memory of warm, chapped lips, hands that had never known a day’s honest work tracing the still-tender (always tender) filigree of lyrium etched into his bare hip, little wolf, little wolf, _little wolf_ \--

He blinks, growling as he’s jerked out of his thoughts by another muffled yelp, overlaid with the heavy, rhythmic grunts of the templar’s labored breath as he pushes into the mage’s mouth again and again, quick and efficient and merciless.

A thought flits through Fenris’ mind, Anders laughing, making some innuendo-laden remark about legendary gray warden stamina, and for a moment he thinks he might lose the contents of his stomach. He casts a glance to his right, where the other templar stands like a statue, hand curled firmly around the grip of his sword. Fenris wonders what the other thinks of this violation, or if he thinks of it at all.

And then, just like that, it’s over. A guttural, animal noise escapes Isley’s throat as he comes with an erratic jerk of his hips, and the mage’s free hand claws deep furrows into the humus beneath him, as he is forced to accept this, too. When Isley releases him, the mage reels almost drunkenly, head lolling briefly against the feathers at his shoulder before he struggles upright once more.

Without a single command -- without a single word spoken at all -- Anders lifts his hand from the ground, wiping it absently against his leg before reaching up to tuck the templar’s spent cock back into his breeches, settling the skirt and sash back properly around the man’s hips with a practiced familiarity that makes Fenris’ stomach lurch in unaccustomed horror. Ingrained habit, even after years of separation; indignity weathered until it is reflex. These are things Fenris understands.

When he is finished, Anders bows his head, shoulders slumping as he gathers his hands to himself, holding them in his lap like wounded birds. “Satisfied, ser?” He asks, barely loud enough for Fenris to catch the words, and the elf is unaccountably angry at the meekness threaded through the mage’s rasping voice.

Isley considers the mage for a few moments as his breathing slows to normal, and Fenris has time to think that this will still be a disaster. He braces himself, momentarily surprised to find the lyrium ready to flare at a thought, ready to take those final few steps between them to crush this corrupted templar’s heart like so much trash. As if in response to his silent anger, the man to his side shifts in his direction, ready to draw. _And yours, too, filth._

“I suppose it will do,” Isley says with a melodramatic sigh, reaching down to slide his thumb against the younger man’s face. “Though you’ve certainly not improved since the last time.” He straightens, then lifts a booted foot and plants it in the middle of the mage’s chest, pushing -- Anders sways, seeming for a moment to catch himself before he keels over on the forest floor and stays there, unmoving. “It’d be a shame to deprive the world of your few _useful_ gifts, alas. Perhaps we shall meet again, before your cowardly instincts get the better of you.” The templar’s smile is pleasantly malicious. “The Maker moves in mysterious ways.”

Isley gestures to the other templar, a quick sweep of his hand, pointing back toward the road. “Our business here is concluded. Let’s be on our way -- I trust the mage will find his own before too long.” The man turns a glance to Fenris, who holds himself neutrally, unconsciously imitating the mage’s caution from earlier. “If I were you, I’d find a new employer,” he says simply -- as if nothing at all has happened here, as if he’s just met the elf on the road and was passing along a warning. “That one’s nothing but trouble.”

 _As if you have the right to talk._ Fenris’ brows knit together, but he dips his head once, unwilling to speak. Isley watches him for a moment longer, then nods as if finding some sort of satisfaction, moving past in a whirl of gleaming armor and heavy fabric, the other following in silence, back towards the road.

For a moment, Fenris remains still, unsure of what to do now that the crisis has passed. The templars are gone, and he can only assume they’ll be on their way well before he or the mage return. Their charges will be nervous the longer they are away, and in Fenris’ experience, nervous mages are never a good thing. He blinks, glancing over at Anders who has yet to move, anger and disgust warring with something that feels suspiciously like _understanding_.

Leave Anders to whatever might lurk out here for a few moments, or go make certain the two of them won’t return to a wagon full of shades? Would their passengers even believe what he might say? It’s beyond dispute that Fenris’ attitude toward Anders has been an unyielding policy of bare tolerance at best.

The lot of them should have stayed in Kirkwall, and avoided this entire mess.

Fenris curses softly and pads over to the mage, watching as that broad back shifts with every drawn breath. There are leaves and twigs caught in the now-ragged mess of his hair, and for a few beats, that minute, worthless detail bothers Fenris more than anything.

_You could have killed them._

_But you didn’t._

_You didn’t … want this._

_But you did it._

_Where is your demon’s hate of injustice? Why did it allow this?_

Fenris swings a wide arc around the mage, until he can see his face -- the mage’s eyes are wide and unblinking, staring at perhaps nothing at all, breath a thin rattle between parted, swollen, still-damp lips. There’s a smear of … something, there at the corner of his mouth, and Fenris’ face twists in disgust.

“Oh, Irving’s going to be so _mad_ ,” Anders breathes, fingers curling into the dirt as he lets out a soft groan, a sound that slips into the beginnings of quiet, bitter laughter. Fenris starts -- that voice, breathy and almost _young_ \-- it’s nothing like the man he’s grown accustomed to.

“Pull yourself together, mage,” Fenris growls, surprised to see the man flinch, sucking in a sharp breath from between his teeth. _Ah._ Isley’s abuse, a title spoken with derision, like ground glass in an open wound -- no wonder the man had been so insistent upon his name. _Well_. “They’re gone.”

Anders blinks up at Fenris, and the elf is startled by the dilation of his eyes, a black so wide it almost swallows the honey-gold ring of his irises. _Maker’s breath, mage._ For a moment, the two of them just _look_ at each other, until comprehension surfaces in Anders’ expression like a thrown switch and he turns away, pushing himself up to his hands and knees. “Enjoyed the show, did you?” He growls, turning his head to the side to spit viciously, scrubbing at his mouth with his sleeve. “Or are you just upset we’re _wasting time_?” There’s equal amounts of fury and venom in the mage’s voice, the same harsh tone that had driven Merrill to injured silence more than a few times.

Fenris just sighs. Were he a different sort of man, he might jump to his own defense, try to explain the fact that he’d had no blighted clue what was happening, that Anders himself had crafted and thrust the elf into a role he’d not been expecting, that he’d been irritated and perhaps a little naive … but Fenris is not that sort of man. Words have always meant little in the face of action, and he has nothing else to offer the mage.

Hawke would know what to do, but the friendly warrior is not here to ease the scars of this.

In silence, Fenris slips the skin of water from his hip, dropping it to the ground beside the mage’s hand -- paltry as the offering might be, it’s all the succor he has to give. “I will check on the others,” he says quietly, and turns on a bare heel. He is not fleeing, he tells himself. There are unattended mages to be dealt with, and this one has never wanted his help, even when he has been inclined to offer it.

There is nothing more he can do here.

The sound of retching follows him into the shadows of the trees, a terrible sound Fenris knows will chase him well into his dreams this night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris learns about Anders and the Circle, whether he wants to or not.

**act ii. little bones among the reeds.**  
(you had slipped outside the scenery with only what you need to survive)

When Fenris returns to the wagon, the templars are gone, and he releases a breath that he only now realizes he’s been holding. As one, the pale, wan faces of the refugees turn to watch him approach. One man, a weathered, shabbily dressed apostate whose wife Anders saved from a particularly nasty bout of pneumonia the previous year, scrambles off the wagon to meet him.

“Is he..?” The man begins quietly, voice lowered to keep the others from overhearing, but Fenris holds up a hand to cut him off.

“He’s well.” _As well as one could expect, given the circumstances._ “We will continue along shortly.”

“They didn’t injure him, did they?” The man asks, and Fenris pauses, looking him over. There’s a haggard cast to the human’s face that goes well beyond the strain of an exhausting journey, the bone-deep weariness that comes from being a person removed from all means to advance in the world. He considers this bedraggled creature, a part of him knowing that should he be offered the privilege of a magister, he’d snatch it up in an instant, carpeting his own steps with the blood of slaves and those less powerful. The rest of him can’t help but recall the sprawled, wrecked form of the mage he’s left behind in that cursed clearing, that last lucid moment of betrayal in honey-gold eyes.

Fenris cannot remember this man’s name -- can’t remember any of them. As his silence grows, he watches the man’s expression shift, nervous curiosity shifting to something unsettling and far too close to comprehension, a quiet misery settling over his narrow features like fine ash. “Nothing but pride,” the elf says at last, turning his head so he does not have to look at the human any longer.

“I understand,” the man murmurs, and there’s a part of Fenris that suddenly doesn’t find that hard to believe at all. “I’ll go assure the others, then.”

Fenris spends the next twenty minutes pacing a small length of the road, eyes drawn again and again to the gap in the trees where the path cuts through the undergrowth. How long will it take for the mage to gather himself? What sort of creatures might be out there? He is worried, of course, but there’s nothing strange about that -- they have several more leagues left to cover before night falls, according to the map he’s got stowed in his bags, and he has no wish to try to make camp alongside the road again. They are running low enough on water as it is.

He’s moments away from storming back into the forest to retrieve the mage when he catches the wink of sunlight reflected off a gold buckle, and Anders emerges from the shade, pale and dirty, but hale enough. Fenris breathes a sigh of relief that carries a quick, subconscious prayer of thanks to the Maker. He holds his ground, watching with that same air of careful emptiness he’d worn in the presence of the templars, as the mage draws nearer.

Muted, tightly-contained anger still hovers like an aura around the man -- an almost visible current -- and Fenris lifts his gaze to that lurid line of red, rubbed-raw skin that mars his forehead, disappearing into his hairline. The soft chatter in the wagon ceases almost immediately, leaving only an uneasy silence to fill the void.

Anders reaches out, thrusting the water skin in front of him like a weapon, shoving it into the elf’s armored chest. “Keep it,” Fenris growls, and there’s a flash in those still-dilated eyes, a knife-twist of imperfectly concealed pain before the corner of his mouth curls in a hard, bitter smile. Fenris allows the mage his fury without comment, unsure as to what’s provoked _this_ particular spark; it’s still a sight better than that strangely vulnerable shell of the man he’d glimpsed back in the wood.

“I hope you’re well prepared for any unwelcome guests,” Anders snarls, pitching his voice low. “Looks like the weak mage won’t be of much use for a while.”

That makes Fenris start, the beginnings of a long, convoluted string of Tevinter curses forming in the back of his mind, right alongside the first throb of an imminent headache. “Explain,” he says shortly, crossing his arms over his chest to glare at the man.

This time Anders lets out a short laugh, brittle and utterly devoid of anything resembling humor. He draws himself up, lifting a dirt-smeared finger to touch his temple, and Fenris’ brows knit together, recalling Isley’s hands there. “No magic, remember?” Anders breathes, swaying just slightly. “You heard him.” There is an accusation there, clear as day. _You heard him_.

Fenris has never seen the power lyrium lends the templars, not in action, not even in Tevinter. “But, then he--”

“Yes,” the mage hisses, that accusing look focused solely on Fenris for a beat more, before he looks away. “He did. But it didn’t matter anyway, did it?” The elf does not turn to watch him retreat to the relative safety of the wagon, though he can hear the creak and groan of wood and iron as he climbs the side.

_The agreement was always meant to be broken._

_Isley did not consider repercussions, because he knew there would be none. I heard. I_ saw _, and I did not even entertain the thought._

Once again, Fenris fights a wave of cold nausea, glaring out along the length of the road.

.

They make it to the campsite just as the twilight begins to fail. The next hour is a flurry of activity, weary passengers descending from the wagon’s bed, wood and water gathered, faces and arms washed, oxen unharnessed and rubbed down, meager provisions reassessed. It’s well past dark by the time Fenris allows himself a moment’s rest. He accepts a cup of weak tea from the woman who’s taken over cook’s duties with a tired nod, and turns his attention to the ragged group, eyes scanning exhausted faces before they find the mage.

Anders is sitting some way away from the rest of the camp, his back to the flames, bent -- _hunched_ forward like an old man. He has been silent since that last heated exchange, and while usually Fenris would bless the Maker for such a boon, it’s not been a pleasant silence in the least. No smile touches Fenris’ lips when he thinks of Varric, or the way the dwarf would most certainly regard this as a fine example of _brooding_ , though the thought is not without some measure of fondness. He could be seated at that familiar scarred and pitted table at this very moment, drinking the Hanged Man’s cheap swill and trying to puzzle out another new set of Isabela’s incomprehensible ‘house rules’, still tired, perhaps, but warm and content enough.

Instead, he is _here_ , out in the middle of a vaguely unfriendly wilderness, chilled and hungry and trying to come to terms with a bout of wholly unwelcome concern, unable to excise the memory of a proud, foolish man brought viciously to heel in a way only a magister would -- or _should be_ \-- able to appreciate. There’s something in the way the mage’s shoulders seem to have folded inwards, something in the awkward cant of his booted feet, that stokes the forges of Fenris’ anger.

How strange, he thinks, to be feeling that anger on the mage’s behalf.

Still, he’s tempted to go confront the mage, to drag him out of that destructive, self-indulgent lassitude that follows violation. There’s no point in it, no time, not when they are still deep in the heart of Ferelden. The only cure is to accept, to move forward, to chain it somewhere firmly beyond attention until it no longer stings -- Maker knows, Fenris has learned at least that much from his life in Tevinter. If rage is to come, let it happen where it cannot be witnessed. He’s already tensing, ready to do just that, when a slight figure slips by him, out beyond the fire’s warm circle, headed directly for Anders. Fenris narrows his eyes -- another human, a frail, ferret-faced apostate of nominal talent who’d been hunted into Darktown by Kirkwall’s resident templars. She carries a clay cup in her hands, and Anders starts when she kneels at his side, holding it out like an offering.

If they speak, Fenris cannot hear them. He sees her head tip to the side in question, sees the shake of Anders’ in response. Sees stillness, then the cup pressed forward again, and this time the mage accepts it. They stay like that for a little while, before the woman reaches out suddenly, enfolding the man in a fierce embrace.

Fenris’ lip curls in annoyance -- catering to it only prolongs the ache. Are all non-Tevinter mages so soft?

She’s not the last, either. Another, the husband to one of the other apostates, seeks out the mage, bearing a tattered, ragged blanket. This time Anders does not accept the offering, pressing it gently back into the man’s hands with his head bowed in apology. It’s like the clinic, Fenris thinks, but … amplified somehow -- so many of these poor people, each eager to offer some token of comfort to the mage, whether they can afford it or not. Fenris does not know how much they know, only that they understand the man has once again stepped up to protect them. They do not see him for the blighted fool, the _abomination_ that he is, a man whose ultimate objective is to remake all of Thedas into some grand Tevinter vision of paradise.

Fools, the lot of them.

And there’s a part of him -- small, but insistent -- that does not completely blame him. Fenris tries to push the thought away, but it lingers stubbornly; a reaction to this afternoon, he thinks. He had not once expected this of a templar, and could not help but feel a shred of betrayal at having that solid conviction rattled so thoroughly. Certainly, it was unreasonable to expect saintliness at all times (they were only men, after all), but there, like _that_ … such a thing should never have happened.

The templars stand as the arm of the Chantry, the Maker’s own steel-sheathed fist. That will had been absent, no matter what Isley had intimated.

For a moment, Fenris wishes Sebastian were here. He rarely has questions for the Chantry brother, but they rise now, unbidden, finding strangely fertile soil in his troubled mind. He’s almost startled when another of the refugees moves to his side, holding a wooden plate piled high with food. “Would you?” she asks softly, stealing a quick glance in his direction.

“He seems occupied enough without _my_ company,” Fenris states bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest. Surely there are others who’d be more than happy to fawn over the man; they’ve been doing precious little else as it is.

“You know him,” she says, shrugging. “And you ask nothing of him. Not like us.”

Fenris shakes his head. “We are not friends, woman.”

“No, but you are … comrades.” As if that means something. He scowls briefly -- this is not his problem, not a thing he wants. Still, the woman stands there patiently, and from her stance she doesn’t seem interested in going anywhere until Fenris gives in. _Fine_. At least he can return for his own dinner once he’s done with the mage.

He doubts it’ll be a lengthy encounter.

Anders does not look up as Fenris approaches, though the elf can sense the tension in the way he holds himself, a bowstring tautness increasing with every step. He’s tempted to kick the man out of this, and refrains if only for the sake of the refugees he knows are observing.

Instead, he crouches down at the mage’s side, still frowning. What did she expect from him? _Little_ , he hopes.

“What do you want?” Anders asks, his voice tired but wary.

Fenris extends his arm, holding the steaming plate out, and says nothing.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t give a damn,” Fenris growls. “You need your strength. _They_ need to see that you are not weak and beaten.”

Anders’ laugh is bitter and quiet. “And if I say I am?”

“I’ll call you a liar.”

The mage’s head turns sharply, and though Fenris does not look back, he can feel the intensity of his stare.

“You mock me,” Anders breathes.

“Not tonight.”

There’s another span of silence, and Anders’ turns his attention out toward the darkness once more -- Fenris feels the that tension ease, if only a little. It’s a start, he thinks; a small one, but he’ll take it. Fenris lifts the plate in front of the mage, and after a moment’s hesitation he accepts it, resting the base of the dish against his knee.

“I didn’t know,” Fenris says shortly, his own quiet peace offering. He is not the sort of man that likes pointing out his own ignorance, but it's been bothering him.  The mage deserves to hear it, at least.

Anders grunts. “You didn’t believe,” he corrects quietly. “Maker knows, you’ve heard me rave on enough about it. What they do to us. You heard, but you didn’t listen.”

“Yes.”

Anders turns back, startled by the admission. “Tyranny is a seed in the heart of all men,” he murmurs. “It isn’t the sole domain of mageborn. One of the senior enchanters told me that, after I'd ... escaped -- the first time, that is. Said a lot of things, really, but that’s what I remember.”

“Such things are common, in the Circle.” It’s not a question.

The mage pokes listlessly at the food on the plate with a finger. “The templars liked to remind us who was in charge. Not all … but enough. More than enough.”

“The Knight-Commander allowed this?” Of all these admissions, perhaps this surprises Fenris the most.

“Not explicitly,” Anders said with a half-hearted shrug. “Sometimes they were caught. Light punishments, though the more violent were sometimes sent away. It wasn’t mentioned for the most part -- like some giant, invisible dragon in the heart of the tower -- and for those who did, well, their lives were more unpleasant than most. A surprisingly high rate of failure at their Harrowings, sudden overwhelming evidence of a good friend’s interest in blood magic. That sort of thing.

“Our choices were limited -- accept it as a fact of life, escape, or die. I was only ever any good at one of those.”

“Is that why you kept at it, then?” Fenris asks.

“One of them, I suppose. It’s … you get used to it after awhile. Not really, mind you, but enough that it isn’t your whole life -- you find a way to deal with it, however you can. Most of us just turned to each other; nothing to ease bad memories like drowning them in more pleasant ones.” The mage’s lips turn upwards in a faint smile, but it doesn’t go anywhere near his eyes. “Mostly, it was stubbornness. I was lucky, compared to others.”

Fenris’ brows furrow as he watches the flicker of firelight in the other man’s eyes -- of course he sees the lie, but he does not acknowledge it. “That seems rather … cavalier.”

“Not at all. It’s survival, Fenris. _Most_ of us don’t want to die, but Circle mages have precious little to rely on. Outside of the First Enchanter … who protects them? The _templars_?” Anders spits out the last word like a curse. “Some protection, that.”

Fenris is quiet for several long moments, considering the mage’s words. The urge to run is not an alien one, though the thought of so many mages on the loose is chilling, despite what he’s heard. _All of this_ ... it’s quite a bit to think about all at once. “You’re not eating,” Fenris points out, only a hint of his former gruffness in his tone. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Anders makes a noncommittal sound. “I’ll be fine.”

“They worry.”

“They do.”

Fenris sighs. “Eat, mage, or I swear I’ll hold you down while your refugees force it down your --” He stops himself, his mouth closing with an audible _click_ as he realizes his abysmal choice of words, and he braces himself for some sort of angry retort. It would be well deserved, _justified_ even; were their roles reversed, there would be blood on Fenris’ hands.

It never comes. A shuddering breath, yes, but Anders nudges him with an elbow, missing the startled look the elf gives him. “I will,” he murmurs. “Go on, Fenris -- I’m sure they’ve saved you some, too. And … tell them to stop with the gifts. I appreciate the gesture, but they’ve precious little to spare. I can’t accept them.”

“Do they know?” Fenris asks, allowing himself this brief curiosity while the mage is so … compliant. The lack of argument is surprising; the lack of ranting about injustice and the treatment of mages, especially in the place of such a perfect, undeniable example even more so.

“They know enough to make some educated guesses. It’s hard to protect your family when you don’t know how the world truly works.”

Fenris hums thoughtfully, but has nothing more to say on the matter -- at least nothing he’s willing to say out loud. He stands, dusting off the back of his leggings before turning one last searching glance at the mage. “Don’t stray too far. If you’re as bad off as you say, you’ll be easy pickings for any ambitious bandits.”

A quiet snort; Anders shakes his head and lifts his arm to scrub at his forehead with the back of his knuckles. “Bad off? I won’t be able to pull so much as a wisp for a week. Go on; I may be _temporarily_ weak, but I’m not stupid.”

 _Fair enough._ Without a further word, Fenris turns and makes his way back toward the fire.

As Anders predicted, they’ve saved a generous helping for him as well, and in turn he speaks with the man (Gerrald, he learns, and this time vows to remember it), conveying the mage’s request. The human doesn’t seem surprised by the gentle refusal, offering a crooked smile as he looks out to where Anders is seated in the gloom. “He’s a good man,” he says softly. “Giving and giving, and never asking for anything in return. It ain’t right, them coming down on the lad like they do.”

Fenris says nothing. Gerrald looks at him for a moment longer, as if waiting for a denial, but the elf does not offer that, either. He eats his simple meal without any further interruption, and his own eyes do not leave the mage’s distant, shadowed form.

Somehow, the encroaching darkness feels like an omen.

 

.

 

“It’s so quiet,” Anders murmurs.

Fenris is seated close to the fire, pushing at the embers with a long branch. Though the men among the refugees had gathered together to take charge of the watch for the night, Fenris is not comfortable with the idea of strangers being in charge of his protection. He turns his head, enough to catch a glimpse of the mage, coat slung over his outstretched body, his head pillowed on a curled arm.

“What do you mean?” Fenris asks quietly, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the women and children. To him, after becoming accustomed to the silence of Danarius’ abandoned mansion, the sound of the outdoors is plenty loud -- If not for the cricket songs, then for the sound of occasionally restless oxen, lowing as they shift within the makeshift corral, or the sound of children muttering (or sometimes laughing) in their sleep.

“He’s … quiet. Since this afternoon.”

Fenris blinks, then his gaze sharpens. _Justice_. “I wondered why you didn’t argue more.”

The mage makes a quiet noise that might be amusement. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had my thoughts to myself. It’s … well. Quiet.”

“So you’ve said.” Fenris is curious but turns back to the fire, ignoring the urge to look over Anders, to see if there’s anything … different about him. He wonders if this is what Anders the mage, Anders the _warden_ was like, before he offered a demon a home within his own bones.

“It’s taking some getting used to,” Anders admits. “No arguments. No nagging.”

“Do you regret it, then? This … joining of yours?”

The mage is quiet, and Fenris wonders if perhaps the man has decided to ignore him, or has fallen asleep. It’s just as well, he thinks, and is prepared to retreat once more into the solitude of his own thoughts when he hears Anders shift onto his back. “I don’t know,” he says, and Fenris entertains the notion that he might even be telling the truth. “I don’t think I liked me very much, before. I think maybe, at first, it was just another type of running.”

Fenris arches a brow, unable to resist the compulsion to look at the man this time. Anders’ attention is turned toward the cloudless night sky, where the constellation Maker’s Chalice hangs high overhead, a cold, remote beacon. Fenris appreciates being able to see the stars properly -- Tevinter was always too well-lit, Seheron too densely forested, Kirkwall’s nightly cloud cover too dirty from the spew of Hightown’s countless chimneys. It never ceases to be a humbling sight.

There are mages that claim to be able to read the skies for portents, and he wonders if perhaps that is what Anders seeks. “And you do now?”

Anders tilts his chin, enough that Fenris knows he’s being watched. “I’m reminded of reasons to try.”

It’s a surprising answer, and Fenris dips his head in silent acknowledgment. Really, all this easy honesty is more than a little unnerving. While his suspicions still weigh heavily on his mind, he is coming to believe that perhaps the tenacious mage isn’t _entirely_ unbearable, and he’s not sure what to do with that thought. It’s only temporary; this lull of his, this glimpse of the man Anders might have been is a fleeting thing at best -- if it truly exists at all.

Still, those soft words resonate in the elf’s mind, sure as a plucked lyre string. Fenris shakes his head, willing the sensation away. “You should sleep, mage,” he mutters, and is startled yet again to see the corner of the other man’s lips quirk in a brief, faint smile.

.

 

To his surprise, when he finally succumbs to a restless, exhausted slumber, it’s nothing like he is expecting. He dreams of Ferelden templars lining Tevinter’s imperial avenue, a glittering, faceless throng. He dreams of aged hands prodding at his belly and flanks and _elsewhere_ , critically rearranging, murmuring indecipherable, detached words in the language of magic. He dreams of the searing heat of lyrium, coaxed along the carved furrows within his skin, and cruel, possessive eyes like chips of ice. He dreams of the loss of innocence, and of blood and fog, and wakes to the sensation of restraint.

His eyes snap open in a moment of unrestrained terror, ready to kill. The faded green weave of a jacket sleeve fills his vision, and his gaze travels up the length of an arm, past the feathers, to a sweep of dirty blond hair, hiding closed eyes. Anders is sitting upright, chin lowered against his breastbone, his chest rising and falling in the cadence of sleep. His outstretched hand accounts for the warmth and pressure against Fenris’ forehead, as if the mage has been somehow suspended in the midst of a healing cantrip.

But -- for the time, at least -- Anders possesses no magic.

Sunrise breaks over the distant, ragged line of the Frostbacks, Anders' upright body shading Fenris’ sleep-weary eyes even as it limns the mage in crimson and gold.

He looks like he might be dead.

He looks … content.

When Anders wakes, stiff and aching, Fenris is gone. The elf returns later with dripping hair and arms burdened with wood for the morning fire. The mage admonishes him quietly for risking illness without the benefit of a healer nearby. Fenris mentions their small supply of healing potions, should the unlikely need arise. Neither of them mention the evening previous, though it is not only the refugees who notice a difference, a strange peace between them where none had existed before.

The rest of the journey to Redcliffe is blessedly uneventful.


End file.
